


A Gentlemanly Vice

by elistaire



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Bad Poetry, Duelling, Gen, Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 13:14:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7440568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elistaire/pseuds/elistaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos wants to go to bed, but Mr. Barton wants Methos to listen to some wretched poetry, and he's willing to duel him to get him to do it. That makes Methos interested. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <i>"You told him I only duel in the afternoon?"  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"I did. He insists that it be now, and insulted you again."</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"He did? What did he call me?"</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Howard made a series of harrumphing noises.  "I'm sure I shall not repeat it," he finally replied. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gentlemanly Vice

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in 2007 for a fic exchange.

_Wetherbrook, CT_

The party had been boring, so he'd left…or tried. 

Now he waited, ever so politely on one side of the newly finished Great Victorian Lady's veranda for his friend Howard Stilton to return and relay the negotiations. 

Methos sighed. He intended to avoid a duel, if such a thing were possible when one's _honor_ was at stake. Or the _honor_ of a friend's ridiculous and tasteless poetry. 

Methos squinted into the misty night--the fog was rolling in off the sea--but no one else lingered outside. All the activity emanated from inside the home where the gas lamps still burned brightly golden and he could hear the murmur of polite society as they chatted about inconsequentialities. No one yet knew that an illegal duel was being discussed just a few short steps away. He'd only wanted to retire home, slide between the cool sheets of his feather bed, and sleep as dreamlessly as possible. It seemed a distant goal at the moment.

He turned and looked across the veranda, but his probably about-to-become second, Howard, had yet to return from discussing the particulars with the young man who felt he had to champion his friend, dubious-poet James Ashley. 

Just as Methos had been leaving the over-strung party--with hat securely on his head and his soft leather gloves already on, young and ennui-ish Alec Barton had stopped him, pleading for him to stay and listen to Ashley's wretched treatment of romantic language.

"You can't leave yet, please," he had said, tugging on Methos' arm. "James is about to read. He's quite brilliant."

Methos had pulled his arm free, sighing and being as polite as he could muster. "And I'm quite tired. No, I am retiring to my home."

Barton's eyes had flashed. "You stayed to listen to Matilda Le Bon. You burned the midnight oil for Stephen Loyther not but a week ago. A few moments of your time for James, it isn’t too much to ask."

Methos shook his head. Last week he had been indulgent for Loyther, who did show promise for oration if not for writing. Matilda's singing had been a pleasant diversion earlier this evening, but it had also been overly enthusiastic and was the precursor to his desire for peace and quiet at home. "I've heard James' poems before and they don't excite me. The promise of rest and quiet entice me more at this moment."

Barton's look had turned cold and hard. "You're a too-constant man," he had accused. "Only the dead words of Byron please you and your heart is frozen to any other poet."

"Untrue!" Methos had cried. He didn't like the direction of the conversation. The ending to this path of discourse was all too familiar to him. Perhaps he did prefer Byron's works and compared all others against him--most to be found wanting--but Methos had good cause for such a partiality. Not that he intended to remain and discuss it with Barton. "I like the Bard quite well and he's something of a poet." Barton's expression remained uncracked at the quip. Methos had tried a crooked grin to soften the reproach. "And, I am telling you in all true honesty, I am tired. I have accounts to attend to in the morning and shouldn't dally."

There could be no placating of Barton, though. The boy had too much wine in his stomach and too much fervor for his dear friend's awful poetry. "Nevertheless," Barton had replied, to Methos' astoundment, "I will have satisfaction." 

So now Methos was resting his hip against the railing and waiting for Howard to return. He supposed it was his own fault. After all, he had gained a slight reputation as a patron of the arts. His current profession of lawyer was dust dry during the day: all he saw were ledgers and memorandums until at night he dreamed of nothing but scribbling notes and dictating letters. His daily toil was not concerned with refinement and aesthetics, and it had gratified him to give out small sums from his personal wealth to struggling artists that showed promise, encouraging them in their creative pursuits. But word had got round, it always did. Now he was invited to all manner of ridiculous parties and functions. 

Howard rounded the corner and Methos stood to greet him. 

"It did not go well," he said, a frown on his craggy face. "He insists that you listen to Mr. Ashley's presentation."

"I shall not," Methos said. "And I'm sorry to the bottom of my heart that I ever embarked on this adventure of charity. It has caused no end of trouble. It should end here."

"Mr. Barton is prepared to face you now. He says he will agree to almost any term."

"You told him I only duel in the afternoon?" Methos had no true cares for when or where, but often scheduling a duel became impossible if the participants could not agree on setting circumstances. 

"I did. He insists that it be now, and insulted you again."

"He did? What did he call me?"

Howard made a series of harrumphing noises. "I'm sure I shall not repeat it," he finally replied. 

"Ah, of course." Methos' imagination raced with the possibilities of the insult. That at least was interesting--unlike Ashley's dreadful poetry and unlike Methos' daily work. "You told him I refused both pistol and sword? I disdain them?"

"I did. He refused fisticuffs and insisted that swords be taken up instead."

"He's a very insistent little brat, isn't he?"

Howard gave a small smile. "I'm sure I don't know about that." He became most serious. "Mr. Barton will not take no for an answer. He claims it is a matter of honor."

Methos raised his eyebrows. Through the open windows he could hear Ashley's lamentable droning: "…and harden me to the delighted kernel of each grain," he intoned. "And whisper to me, yea, yea, yea, o'er again, the harkening of the dawn that would be coming, all in supple colors of the world's sky and calamity of night's demise…." Methos grimaced. He'd shoot himself to avoid the pain of enduring drudging sentiments such as those. 

"You told him I'd unfortunately left my spectacles at home and was not fit for dueling of any sort?"

"He said allowances could be granted."

"Of course he did." Methos asked about the last condition, "To what extent does he want to take this farce?"

"He said he would prefer it be to the first blood. He hopes that when he wins that you shall listen to Mr. Ashley and promote him." Howard gave a shallow shrug. 

Methos considered it. Since he had been unable to change the misguided young man's mind, the bastardized _codes duello_ demanded that he accept the challenge and though Methos had little care for such flimsy concepts as honor and nobleness, he judged that it would be less tiresome to see this through tonight than to deal with the repercussions of refusal tomorrow. 

Alec Barton was a hard-headed man, with a gilded fire burning in him--such a lovely passion for his friend. Methos found he admired that and was envious of it. It stirred something within him…. Methos licked his lips. 

He had no doubt his own skills were up to the task. There was no concern in him for his safety. Barton preferred him alive, in any case, so that he might be forced to endure the sludgy poetry. But now a shadow of indecision slid its blade into Methos' mind: did Methos want to win?

Perhaps, he did not. There could be worse fates than sitting close by spirited Barton's side for a time, even if it meant listening to Ashley's ineloquent elocution. Then again…it was truly _awful_ poetry.

"Does he have a second?" Methos asked. 

"He does not. He prefers not to interrupt Mr. Ashley."

"No seconds," Methos mused, "that's most unusual." He slapped Howard on the back. "Since it's to first blood, I assume he'll allow you to act for both of us?"

"As Mr. Barton said, he was willing to agree to most terms."

"Go and tell him I shall be--where are we to go?" Methos found they had neglected the most vital part of any duel--the location. 

"There is a flower garden behind the house," Howard told him. "Secluded enough for your purposes. And the incoming fog has yet to wet the grass, so your footing will be secure. With the house lighted, not even the occupants would see you if they glanced out a window."

"And enough light thrown from those windows for us to see by, I am sure." Methos rubbed tiredly at his face. "Does the boy even have a sword with him?" It wasn't as if swords were commonly carried anymore.

"Yes--he has gone to borrow one from the house. He offered to fetch one for you also."

"You informed him I carry my own?"

"I did." Howard nodded, his expression carefully neutral. What he thought of Methos carrying his own sword with him, Methos did not know. Howard was ignorant of immortality and, however keenly curious he must have been, he had never directly asked Methos about his curious habit of keeping an archaic sword close. "I shall instruct Mr. Barton." He walked away with a last, inscrutable glance at Methos. 

"I'll be there shortly," Methos called after him. He looked into the murky night again, but nothing about it had altered. Only his destination had changed. Instead of bed and rest he was bound for the backyard and some folly with a young man who thought too heavily of minor things. 

After a minute of waiting, Methos took the steps and rounded the corners of the house until he found himself in the garden. It was a lovely spot--though a tad cramped for a display of swordsmanship--and the delicate fragrance of night blooming plants hung in the chilled summer air like perfume. 

Barton stood before a hedge, a sword already in hand. Howard had taken up a position to one side, looking unhappy and solemn. 

Methos pulled his own sword. It looked heavy and clumsy next to the thin, whippy rapier that Barton wielded. He glanced to Howard. 

"To the first drawing of blood only," Howard said, his gaze traveling steadily from Barton to Methos. "Begin on my mark." He paused. "Begin."

It was over in a matter of moments. Barton fought with hot-fired temper, aggression, and desperate lunging. He was obviously trained for formal competitions, and a beginner. Methos calmly side-stepped and came around behind Barton quickly, pushing him to the ground with a shove to his shoulders. Methos kept him from moving by threatening with the edge of his blade at his fine neck. He took care to cause no injury, and draw no blood. He would sooner have lost the duel than to permanently mark that fair, sweet neck.

"Yield?" Methos asked quietly. 

Barton breathed raggedly, with his weight on his heels and his head severely tipped back so he could view Methos above him. He blinked and his mouth worked but no sound came out. Even in defeat, the young man's look was defiant and lush. His cheeks were stained with the effort of the short duel and beneath Methos' hand to his shoulder could be felt the slightest tremble. Methos licked his lips again.

"Yes, I yield," he finally managed in a throaty whisper. 

Methos released his sword and grasped Barton's clothes to haul him upwards and off his knees. Face to face, they breathed in the same misty air for a long moment. 

Methos turned his head and quietly asked into Barton's ear, "Why is it so important that I should listen to your friend's poetry? Is he your lover?"

"No," he said forcefully and closed his eyes for a brief moment. "He is my sister's fiancé. I had hoped--if you liked him, perhaps a stipend--and they could marry."

Methos smiled, amused. "Oh, that old story," he said, lightly. "History does repeat itself." 

"Ahem-gr-umph," said Howard, catching their attention. "I believe Mr. Ashley has finished his recital."

Barton looked so crestfallen that Methos had to turn away and cover his mouth to keep from laughing. When he recovered, he straightened and gave Howard a wave. "Just as well. I wanted to get to bed anyway." He paused to give Barton his best smoldering look of promise. "Perhaps, if you are interested, Mr. Barton, you could visit me in the morning. We could have breakfast and discuss--poetry."

Barton licked his own lips and focused a hard, inquiring gaze on Methos as he left his side. His friend Howard accompanying him, Methos finally was able to head for home. He'd discover if he had company for breakfast or not tomorrow.


End file.
